


What Comes After

by platypusesrneat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Good Peter Hale, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pancakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 05:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13093662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platypusesrneat/pseuds/platypusesrneat
Summary: When Stiles gets hurt again, Peter is there to pick up the pieces.





	What Comes After

**Author's Note:**

> I just really really like hurt/comfort fics okay?

Peter is not a nice man. There is little he wouldn’t do selfishly, and even less he would do selflessly.

Even so...

For a moment, he just looks at Stiles as he lays in a crumpled heap.

The boy’s remarkable loyalty is completely wasted on Scott and his little pack. They have once again forgotten Stiles. Forgotten that for all of his bravery and intelligence, it is all for naught if he has no support. The consequence is this: Stiles, bleeding onto the cold ground, alone.

Peter fights off the urge to vomit.

In an instant, he has the boy cradled in his arms. Peter winces as the pain hits, but doesn’t falter draining his pain as he begins his trek to the Stilinski house. Stiles is almost lifeless and the fluttering of his heart is a bit too weak for Peter’s liking.

His chest rumbles in a mixture of rage and, admittedly, a bit of fear.

What if Peter is too late?

He pushes that thought aside the moment he arrives at the house. Quickly, he gets Stiles laying flat on his bed and removes his shirt and pants. Peter immediately sees what his nose couldn’t pinpoint for all the blood--a large, deep set of claw marks traveling from the edge of his rib cage to the top of his shoulder. Bruises also tarnish Stiles’s skin all over, yellow and purple mottling his skin. Both are a dark contrast to his now overly pale skin.

Peter fetches gauze, peroxide, cotton balls, and anything else he could think of that could be of use and gets to work. _It’s like riding a bike_ , Peter thinks to himself. Being apart of such a large supernatural family meant he was always taking care of scrapes and booboos, and apparently that skill stayed with him long after the fire.

“Ughh,” Stiles suddenly groans, and Peter lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His heartbeat is getting stronger, and a bit of color is returning.

He wasn’t too late. It isn’t too late to save him.

It takes another forty minutes for Stiles to begin looking like the spastic teen Peter remembers. In that time, Peter finishes bandaging him up and contacts John. He isn’t happy about it being _Peter_ to help his son, but it seems the man knows (or at least suspects) that if it wasn’t Peter, it wouldn’t be anyone.

“I can’t leave work now,” John tells Peter. “So just tell Scott--”

“I refuse to tell that _failure of an Alpha_ anything.”

John is silent, undoubtedly picking up on the unsubtle anger in Peter’s voice.

“I’ll take care of him.”

“You better. Christopher has loaded me up with wolfsbane bullets, Hale, and I won’t hesitate to use them.”

Then Peter hangs up because he can hear Stiles’s heart rate increase. A lot.

Stiles’s chest is spasming and he’s making these small squeaky noises that are making Peter’s chest clench.

Peter pets up and down Stiles’s bare torso, trying to calm the panic attack away.

“I’ve got you, you’re safe. Nothing can hurt you here.”

He repeats these words until Stiles can breathe, and then he glances at the bandages.

Peter doesn’t understand why the thought of Stiles not being okay makes him so upset. At this point, he doesn’t think it matters, though, so he pushes that from his mind and focuses on helping Stiles.

“What--” _gasp_ “--happened?”

Peter hesitates for a moment. Is it better to lie, to deceive Stiles into thinking his friends didn’t abandon him? No. He deserves to know. Even if it kills Peter to be the one to tell him, he deserves to know.

“They left you to die.”

Stiles’s flinch hits Peter hard, but he steels himself.

The boy swallows hard.

“ _Oh_.”

He looks down at the bandages, and then the tears come. For the second time, Peter pulls him to his chest. He lets Stiles sob into his chest for a long time, occasionally wiping at his face.

It’s only when Peter notes how beautiful Stiles is (even as his eyes are puffy and face is shiny with snot and tears) that he knows he’s in trouble. Because Peter is _not_ nice; never has been. He’s an asshole at the best of times, and a murderer at his worst.

He’s in trouble now because for the first time in a while, Peter is scared. He wants to kiss Stiles now, and keep him safe. Court him, date him, love him. He’s scared of the possessiveness he feels toward someone half his age, and as juvenile as it sounds, Peter is scared of the rejection that will surely follow if he tells Stiles any of this.

Stiles, unaware of his inner turmoil, presses closer as his sobs slowly turn into hiccups.

“Are you hungry,” Peter asks him once the tears have completely stopped and the smell of sadness has disappeared.

A loud rumble comes from Stiles’s stomach, making him go a pretty red.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Are pancakes good?”

"How is that even a question you're asking? Pancakes are _always_ good."

"Point taken. Come on, let's make sure your father doesn't shoot me for not feeding you."

Stiles gives him a weird look then.

"Why would my dad shoot you? Wait, did you _talk to him?!_ Bad idea, Zombiewolf! Possibly one of the worst ideas you've ever had!"

Peter snorts.

"I did talk to him, _but_ ," he says, lifting a finger to stop Stiles from interrupting, "would you rather John come home to a werewolf putting his hands on his injured son?"

"I hate it when you're right," Stiles mumbles.

"I get that a lot."

They make their way to the kitchen slowly. Peter guides Stiles with a hand on his hip, drawing pain whenever it comes. Stiles eyes the black veins on his arms with a guilty look on his face, but says nothing.

A silence falls over them as Peter starts on the pancakes. Stiles fidgets as always, flinching whenever he moves the wrong way in his seat. The scent of anxiety--bitter, but spicy--assaults his nose, making it hard to focus on the task at hand. He looks nervous, like something is bothering him, but Peter knows better than to ask. But he knows he made the right choice when Stiles blurts out what's on his mind.

"So...uh, what should I tell Scott when I see him next? I mean, when I show up to a Pack meeting smelling like you, that's going to raise some questions."

A low growl sounds through the kitchen before Peter can stop it.

"You're smarter than this, Stiles. You keep letting them have chance after chance, and when you do, you get hurt. Like this. You could have _died_ today. If I hadn't been there, you would've."

He flips a pancake, eyes downcast as he hears the uptake in Stiles's breathing.

"Look, I don't get why you're doing this, but I know why I am. I'm the breakable, fragile human, I get that. But I'm not going to just sit here while my friends nosedive into danger just because I'm scared of a few bruises."

Peter gestures toward the bandages with eyes glowing blue, his grip on the spatula tight and angry.

"That is not just 'a few bruises'. Those are not your friends. Leave the moralistic bullshit to Scott and listen to me when I say I am doing this for you."

A blush spreads from Stiles's face down to his neck.

"You--"

"I like you, Stiles."

He turns around and leans over the table, into the boy's personal space. Stiles parts his lips, almost like an invitation, eyes wide and bright. They're breathing the same air now, noses brushing together.

 _Fuck it,_ Peter decides, never one to pass up an opportunity, and never one to pass up an opportunity that may never come again. It's selfish, this desire, and it's reminding Peter that no, he's still not a good person, and yes, he's still very much in trouble. He presses their lips together, relishing in the surprised moan Stiles lets out.

Then the front door opens and the smell of burnt pancakes hit Peter's nose.

He curses, quickly tending to saving his creations.

"Oh, uh, h-hey dad, how's it going, we're just...cooking. Want a pancake," Stiles sputters.

John rolls his eyes and inspects his son's wounds suspiciously.

"Depends. Is he using that recipe that uses _soy_ , or is he making actual pancakes?"

In between Stiles's yelling about John's health, Peter assures him that he would never make pancakes from soy, and yes, of course he'll cook real bacon with it. While John is scarfing it down, Stiles and Peter share a smile, like a secret.

 _Traitor,_ Stiles mouths, grinning and pointing at the pancakes. Peter scoffs, mouthing back the word _'Bribery'_.

And, well, if their hands somehow end up entwined when John isn't looking, that would just be Peter's selfish nature, wouldn't it?


End file.
